In the brief pause before the next visitor, I let my gaze roam. We’re not the only ones keeping to the edges – eight others stand in pairs at almost equidistant intervals, with the biggest gap filled by the door. On our side of the door are two I know by sight – Goldmine’s elegant, metallic robes gleam as they catch the light; Torrent is instantly recognisable and his disdainful sneer is clearly fixed on me. Each is accompanied by someone else dressed in similar robes. Judging by their younger appearances and the similarities between them and the Great Lords, I assume these are the heirs.

  I keep my face neutral, letting my gaze drift on as though he’s beneath my notice. The room must slope subtly to the middle because, over the heads of the crowd of Lesser House nobles, I can see the heads and shoulders of four other richly dressed figures standing at opposing intervals on the other side of the chamber. The other two Great House heads, I presume, accompanied by their own heirs. Even without an introduction, the lady with bright red hair, golden skin, and crimson robes embroidered in golden flame motifs must be Lady Flameform – she’s accompanied by a young man who looks too similar to her not to be related. A little distance away, the two men with almost ghostly pale skin and platinum blonde hair dressed in dark green robes embroidered with silver can only be Lord Forestheart and his heir, though which is which is hard to identify at this distance. I fix their faces into my memory – they are the most important players in this game of politics and I must be able to recognise them on sight.

  Like us, they receive a steady flow of ‘supplicants’. I spot Vellor cutting through the crowd towards Lady Flameform and her heir – clearly some nobles are making the rounds.

  Is there some tradition that dictates we should stand in this position? I ask Nicholas. That it’s deliberate has become more than obvious.

  Tradition? Yes, I suppose, Nicholas muses. I was not yet born when it was instituted; I cannot speak as to its origins. Perhaps someone decided the Great Houses should stand apart – our distance a symbol of the difference between our stations.

  Then why the gulf between us and Forestheart? I ask curiously. Symbolic in a different way? Nicholas glances that direction briefly.

  Have you not considered what occupies the space? he returns. I follow his gaze, puzzling it out until the answer clicks.

  The door?

  To the dining room, yes. What does that represent, pray?

  Oh. The King, I realise.

  Yes, Nicholas confirms. Starblade remains a Great House, even if it stands slightly above the rest of us. Its presence here is marked not with a person, but a door. Take the symbolism for what it is. Remember this place – if you should ever attend alone, you must stand here during the final half-mark before eight and receive with equanimity whoever comes. It is rarely pleasant, but it is part of our duty: to be approachable by those beneath us in the hierarchy.

  I understand, I agree with an internal sigh that I fight hard to stop emerging into reality. And, as a figure approaches us once more, I realise that the brief break we had is over.

  A faint hint of smoke, laced with something floral, drifts ahead of the slim, pale young man with dark hair touched red in the light. As he draws near, my gaze catches on his eyes – storm-grey, shot through with odd red flecks. His orange-red robes are embroidered with flickering yellow flames – the colour doesn’t really suit him. If this noble’s Class isn’t tied to fire, I’ll eat my hat – if I had one.

  “Lord Titanbend. Heir Titanbend,” he greets with careful respect, bowing politely first to Nicholas, then to me. His expression is composed, but those strange eyes are full of caution. There’s none of the easy self-confidence the other lords and ladies carried. “Thank you for allowing the interruption. I am Layton of House Heatwave.”

  Nicholas nods. “Lord Layton. My condolences on your mother’s passing.” Layton’s expression tightens, pain flashing across it before he reins it in and composes himself again.

  “Thank you. I’m sure you know that it was not…unexpected.”

  “Even so, I know how hard it is to bear such a loss – and at such a young age too,” Nicholas continues and I can’t help but wince. Since he’s blocked the flow of emotions from his side of the Bond, I can’t tell if he’s twisting the knife or simply speaking blunt truth. Either way, I can see the hit land.

  “As you say, my lord,” Layton replies, his voice a little wooden. He abruptly changes the subject, turning his attention to me. “I hear you’ll be among the competitors bound for the Lost Continent, Heir Titanbend.”

  “That’s the plan,” I agree evenly, keeping my voice and face in check.

  “I spoke with my cousin earlier today. I believe you met – Lord Josiah of House Softrain?”

  My eyebrows twitch upwards before I can stop them. Cousins? They don’t look remotely alike.

  “We did,” I confirm slightly hesitantly, not wanting to risk saying something I shouldn’t.

  “Rest assured, he betrayed no confidences, but he did shed some light onto the rumours running through the palace like helven on a hunt. Consequently, I wished to introduce myself…and to point out that while we are no weather mages, Heatwave has advantages of its own,” Layton presses meaningfully. I search for an answer that isn’t painfully bland. ‘That’s nice’ seems utterly underwhelming. Fortunately, Nicholas steps in.

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  “Are you seeking to align our Houses? Or taking the first step in an alliance?” Nicholas asks mildly.

  Layton hesitates.

  “Not yet. But I am…looking. And listening.”

  A moment of silence passes. Then Layton dips a shallow bow. “I won’t take more of your time. I came only to offer courtesy – and interest.”

  He straightens and looks at me, his voice low. “And perhaps…to say that some of us don’t mind a little heat. When it’s well-aimed.”

  With that, he retreats, vanishing into the crowd. I’m left staring after him, intrigued despite myself.

  That was…different, I comment.

  It was, Nicholas says, thoughtful. You didn’t mention meeting Lord Softrain today.

  Our time was rather consumed by other matters, I remind him wryly. I did tell you about Goldmine.

  Quite right. But what happened with Softrain? I use the Bond currently between us to pass him the memory of the conversation. With my Intelligence as it is now, and the event so recent, the recollection is crystal clear. Nicholas takes only moments to process the memory suggesting that his Intelligence is at least as high as mine.

  Very interesting, Nicholas murmurs. As he said, I spoke with Softrain a little over a tenday ago. He seemed to be tentatively interested in an alliance between our Houses, but he hasn’t made any firm steps towards it.

  Apart from speaking to me to gauge where I stand, I point out.

  And speaking to his cousin about it, Nicholas adds. He falls silent for a long moment. My eyes wander over the crowd again, maybe unconsciously searching for the man himself. My sweep ends on Torrent again – this time speaking to another pair of nobles, one of whom looks familiar even from the back view. They are standing closer than any of the other nobles did with us.

  Torrent looks up – catches me watching. His lips pull into a grin thick with cruelty as he leans forward to murmur into one of the men’s ears. The figure turns his head slightly – and I realise just who it is. I should have expected Heir Fell’s attendance – it’s obligatory for lords and heirs alike – but somehow I hadn’t put it together.

  A sweet-toned bell chimes, drawing all eyes to the golden doors. They open in perfect silence. I half-expect a surge towards the dining room, but the nobles have too much dignity to do that. If anything, it’s a contest for who can be the most indifferent to the meal ahead, multiple nobles even affecting the air that they haven’t even noticed that the doors are open.

  Heir Fell and his companion melt into the crowd. I lose sight of Torrent soon after as we begin to move. I consider telling Nicholas, but the thought slips away as he speaks first.

  It may be worth pursuing the connection with Softrain and Heatwave, both, he decides. House Softrain are generally good weather mages, and House Heatwave are decent in battle. I doubt that either of them seeks the throne, but like many nobles they’ll see more opportunities here than just the crown. If you can bring them into your train, they would most likely be worthy allies. And you are much the same age – they are far more trained in the traditional domain of nobles where you bring significantly more combat-awareness. He nods decisively. A good partnership.

  Good to know, I answer, a touch sardonic – not entirely appreciating having my ‘friends’ planned out for me. Still, I suppose these aren’t friends, but allies – and Nicholas’ points about their value as such are sound. I’ll do my best, I add, more genuinely. Do you think I should reach out to them next?

  Yes, Nicholas agrees. Invite them for tila – together or separately – and continue feeling each other out. Find out what they want in an alliance and see whether it fits with our objectives.

  Alright, I agree, a flicker of panic in my gut at the idea. It’s just like interviewing a potential hire, I remind myself. I need to figure out whether their values and intentions match those of the company and job position. The comparison steadies me.

  The doors to the dining room are wide, but the crowd moving through is thicker now. No one jostles; in fact, they often leave plenty of space between each other, making progress slow. At one point, we end up next to a round, soft man who smells faintly of brine. His deep ocean blue robe is embroidered with fish motifs in a lighter, watery aquamarine.

  “Sir Pevril, I had hoped to encounter you tonight.” Surprisingly, this time it’s Nicholas who begins the conversation.

  “Lord Titanbend! A delight, truly! And your mysterious heir – what a pleasure!” the man exclaims, dipping into a deep bow to each of us. A few nobles nearby mutter at his sudden halt, but fall silent when they spot Nicholas.

  Lord Pevril of House Oceanborn. They rule the town of Whalehost, in our territory – Azaarde, Nicholas tells me silently, giving me a little context. They are currently building our ships for the competition.

  “Indeed,” he says out loud. “I’d like to hear the progress of that project you’ve been handling for me. Will you join me for a cup of tila tomorrow?”

  The little round man seems to be almost bouncing apart with his excitement. His gaze flicks left and right – pride, maybe, at being acknowledged so publicly by a Great Lord, and wanting to see who else has noticed.

  “Of course, of course! Whenever you wish.”

  “Excellent. The twelfth candlemark, then?”

  “I’d be honoured,” Pevril agrees, bowing low again. As he heads off, I notice an extra spring in his step.

  A harmless gift to offer him – my public approval, Nicholas comments to me. And it will perhaps increase his motivation to do his task well, knowing that I might acknowledge it publicly again.

  I see. I wonder whether I’ll ever navigate the complicated political world as smoothly as Nicholas does. Perhaps it’s just a question of practice. Anyway, good at it or not, it’s increasingly clear that I won’t have much choice.

  We step through the golden gateway, the low murmur of the antechamber fading behind us. Light spills over polished floors and gilded arches, and for a moment the weight of politics slips from my shoulders. I draw breath – not for words this time, but because of the magnificence of the hall.

  here!

  here!

  here!

  here